The Motorcycle Trip - Part Two
by Lee Carrick
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: The unfortunate incident of the trapped exotic bird.
_____________________________________________________________________
I decided to take the coast road south rather than take the mountain roads to Taidong. The smell of the ocean accompanies a motorcycle trip like no other. When I reached Taiwan's southernmost point I stopped the bike and walked down to the lookout point. It was as uninspiring as all of these tourist traps are. I got back on the bike and headed inland through the small tourist towns and surfing villages of Pingtung County and after an hour or two I reached the east coast. The east coast of Taiwan is the most beautiful part of the country. The cities are small, the villages even smaller, and from north to south the mountain slopes directly into the ocean. I was heading for a town named Dulan. A surfing town with an expat community who owned BnB's and restaurants. When I arrived, three hours later, I checked into Dulan 102 BnB and took a much needed shower to wash the road from my skin.
The BnB was on three floors. There was a small bar and restaurant on the first floor and dorms on the second and third. The beds in the dorms had wooden frames and curtains. They looked like second-hand princess beds. The walls were painted in sky blue while the linens were pastel pinks and purples. The curtains were a setting sun yellow and the window frames an Amsterdam red. There was no air conditioning but the building was full of ceiling fans and industrial style floor fans. It was very open and spacious. The bathroom was big and decorated with seashells.
After a long, cold shower I took a nap on my princess bed. The hostel was empty. All of the residents were out surfing. When I awoke I continued to read A Moveable Feast by Hemingway.
After a short while I began to hear a strange noise coming from the dorm on the third floor. I decided to investigate. I walked up the wooden stairs to the much prettier top floor dorm. On a wooden frame above one of the beds sat a small bird, no bigger than a sparrow, but as pretty as a hummingbird. Its face was a burnt orange red while the underside of its body was silver gray. Its beak was long and sharp and its wings appeared to be powerful for a bird of that size. I was strangely mesmerized by it as it flew around the room looking for the window through which it had entered. I watched it for a minute or two before deciding to take some photographs. I headed back downstairs and retrieved my camera. When I returned the bird was perched on a pair of curtains. I started to take photos, moving closer and closer to the bird. The bird became panicked and flew erratically around the room from window to bed to door frame to curtain. I continued to take photographs as it tried to escape my attention. The bird landed on a wooden frame once more, I moved towards it with my camera, it took off from the wooden frame flew straight into a ceiling fan. The first blade hit and sent it into a spin before the second blade hit it with an almighty thump and sent the bird flying towards a wall. It slipped down the sky blue wall and landed behind a bed.
I was distraught. I ran over to the bed and bent down but I couldn't reach it. It was lying on its back and there was no movement. I took a sweeping brush from downstairs and used it to pull the bird towards me. I picked it up. It was dead. I began to cry. The reason for the severity of my emotion is still unclear to me. The guilt I felt was heavy. The bird was dead because I wanted to take some pictures. It lay in my hand, lifeless, its legs stiff and its wings folded by its side. I looked at it, moved it around looking for signs of life. But there were none. It was such a pretty bird. I took the bird to the balcony area and placed it on a wooden shelf. I stared at it for a while and I wondered what I could do. I saw the Black Dog out of the corner of my eye. He wasn't saying anything. He was just shaking his head in disgust.
I went back downstairs and took A Moveable Feast and then returned to the bird. I sat down and began to read out loud to it:
I remember the smell of the pines and the sleeping on the mattresses of beech leaves in the woodcutters' huts and the skiing through the forest following the tracks of hares and of foxes. In the high mountains above the tree line I remember following the track of a fox until I came in sight of him and watching him stand with his right forefoot raised and then go carefully to stop and then pounce, and the whiteness and the clutter of a ptarmigan bursting out of the snow and flying away and over the ridge.
I read aloud to the bird and finished the book.
That night I drank a bottle of gin, alone, on the BnB's porch and thought about the bird. The Black Dog sat beside me and scratched at my face. The next morning I awoke with a pain in my head. I returned to see the bird. Ants were crawling all over it and its eyes had already been eaten or removed by them. I left.
I took a shower and ate a lot of pain killers, packed up the bike and headed north to Hualien.
Swearwords: None.
Description: The unfortunate incident of the trapped exotic bird.
_____________________________________________________________________
I decided to take the coast road south rather than take the mountain roads to Taidong. The smell of the ocean accompanies a motorcycle trip like no other. When I reached Taiwan's southernmost point I stopped the bike and walked down to the lookout point. It was as uninspiring as all of these tourist traps are. I got back on the bike and headed inland through the small tourist towns and surfing villages of Pingtung County and after an hour or two I reached the east coast. The east coast of Taiwan is the most beautiful part of the country. The cities are small, the villages even smaller, and from north to south the mountain slopes directly into the ocean. I was heading for a town named Dulan. A surfing town with an expat community who owned BnB's and restaurants. When I arrived, three hours later, I checked into Dulan 102 BnB and took a much needed shower to wash the road from my skin.
The BnB was on three floors. There was a small bar and restaurant on the first floor and dorms on the second and third. The beds in the dorms had wooden frames and curtains. They looked like second-hand princess beds. The walls were painted in sky blue while the linens were pastel pinks and purples. The curtains were a setting sun yellow and the window frames an Amsterdam red. There was no air conditioning but the building was full of ceiling fans and industrial style floor fans. It was very open and spacious. The bathroom was big and decorated with seashells.
After a long, cold shower I took a nap on my princess bed. The hostel was empty. All of the residents were out surfing. When I awoke I continued to read A Moveable Feast by Hemingway.
After a short while I began to hear a strange noise coming from the dorm on the third floor. I decided to investigate. I walked up the wooden stairs to the much prettier top floor dorm. On a wooden frame above one of the beds sat a small bird, no bigger than a sparrow, but as pretty as a hummingbird. Its face was a burnt orange red while the underside of its body was silver gray. Its beak was long and sharp and its wings appeared to be powerful for a bird of that size. I was strangely mesmerized by it as it flew around the room looking for the window through which it had entered. I watched it for a minute or two before deciding to take some photographs. I headed back downstairs and retrieved my camera. When I returned the bird was perched on a pair of curtains. I started to take photos, moving closer and closer to the bird. The bird became panicked and flew erratically around the room from window to bed to door frame to curtain. I continued to take photographs as it tried to escape my attention. The bird landed on a wooden frame once more, I moved towards it with my camera, it took off from the wooden frame flew straight into a ceiling fan. The first blade hit and sent it into a spin before the second blade hit it with an almighty thump and sent the bird flying towards a wall. It slipped down the sky blue wall and landed behind a bed.
I was distraught. I ran over to the bed and bent down but I couldn't reach it. It was lying on its back and there was no movement. I took a sweeping brush from downstairs and used it to pull the bird towards me. I picked it up. It was dead. I began to cry. The reason for the severity of my emotion is still unclear to me. The guilt I felt was heavy. The bird was dead because I wanted to take some pictures. It lay in my hand, lifeless, its legs stiff and its wings folded by its side. I looked at it, moved it around looking for signs of life. But there were none. It was such a pretty bird. I took the bird to the balcony area and placed it on a wooden shelf. I stared at it for a while and I wondered what I could do. I saw the Black Dog out of the corner of my eye. He wasn't saying anything. He was just shaking his head in disgust.
I went back downstairs and took A Moveable Feast and then returned to the bird. I sat down and began to read out loud to it:
I remember the smell of the pines and the sleeping on the mattresses of beech leaves in the woodcutters' huts and the skiing through the forest following the tracks of hares and of foxes. In the high mountains above the tree line I remember following the track of a fox until I came in sight of him and watching him stand with his right forefoot raised and then go carefully to stop and then pounce, and the whiteness and the clutter of a ptarmigan bursting out of the snow and flying away and over the ridge.
I read aloud to the bird and finished the book.
That night I drank a bottle of gin, alone, on the BnB's porch and thought about the bird. The Black Dog sat beside me and scratched at my face. The next morning I awoke with a pain in my head. I returned to see the bird. Ants were crawling all over it and its eyes had already been eaten or removed by them. I left.
I took a shower and ate a lot of pain killers, packed up the bike and headed north to Hualien.
About the Author
Originally from South Shields, Lee Carrick is a thirtysomething adopted Scot. His biggest passions in life are writing and travelling, and he likes to combine the two. He has been writing poetry since he was 15, but only recently began to write fiction. He was inspired to write by Ian Banks' The Wasp Factory and Neil Gaiman's Smoke and Mirrors. The Care Home, his first novella, is a McStorytellers publication.
Lee’s full profile can be read on McVoices.
Lee’s full profile can be read on McVoices.